The Great Escape
by FreedomOftheSeas
Summary: ON HIATUS - A woman, deeply oppressed by her culture, chooses the path of freedom. Unwilling to relinquish hope that her Songsmith would return to her, Samhra is finally set free to live a life on the run alongside the Pirate Lord of Madagascar. Chapter 7 - The Traitor: A past revisited and a traitor revealed!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Quite a while ago, I explored an unseen and unheard character for a Magnificent Garden Party collaboration challenge here on FFNet. The series was entitled "Mothers of the Caribbean," and I chose to portray Jack Sparrow's mother. Since then, I had an itching to write this small series that expands on my ending of that particular one-shot, but never got a chance to get around to it. A big hug goes to my wonderful beta-readers, Madam Pudifoot and ShahbanouScheherazade– for keeping me in line.

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The original characters and plots are owned by me.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong><em>Chapter 1: The Return<em>**

**~o~**

At night, with nothing else to distract her, she was assaulted by her memory: the lone musician in the market, how the wind ruffled his hair into flight, his brilliant smile, and expressive heart. What increased her despondency was her fear that the worst would happen – that her Songsmith would learn that she was forced to marry _him_, her assailant. He would never return to her.

A woman condemned to live under the authority of her brutal husband, her life with him was rendered absolutely excruciating, driving her to desperation. One day after another culminated in endless quarrels and violent explosions. At times, her saris could not hide her blackened skin.

He had every right to her body.

_He_ owned her now. They had sold her soul to the devil, and _he _was it.

Physical pain did not halt her dreams or the appreciation she had for the small doses of happiness she was permitted. She was grateful for that. It was one of the joys life had not yet stolen from her. As difficult as the previous night had been, she was ready to start afresh. She had learned to live that way, discarding the past each night and starting anew – picking joy where she could find it. Sometimes her endurance surprised her.

The morning market brought her comfort – the sounds of disruption, the laughter of children playing, the colors of the sky and the birds soaring freely above her. Deep within her, the free-spirited longings never lost hope that one day she would be set free.

Hope was what caused her to live in the past for five long years; recalling their last moments together on the docks - that exact spot where they had said their goodbyes. The voice of the ocean, which she had heard ever since she could remember, suited her thoughts well. She was fearful of moving forward, and so she waited - faithfully watching tall merchant ships roll in with the tide each morning.

That night, her heart burned furiously, mournful and imposing; like a funeral pyre kindled in the night, surrounded by the sea, watched over by the stars. Flashes of pain burned her flesh as her husband laid hands upon her, blaming her for their inability to bear children. He wished to try again, and again, and _again_. The thought of it made her insides quiver.

It was when the blood crept down from her lip that Samhra realized hope would not deliver her from her fate. Tears spilled from her eyes as he took her by the arm; she pulled away. He seized her shoulders. As she struggled, he got a firm grip on her waist and half-carried, half-dragged her to the front of the house.

Soundlessly, she continued to fight, elbows and hands flailing to strike in any way possible. As he neared the entryway, the pain of her blows turned his anger to fury, and he threw her against the door. Samhra's body struck it so hard that the door snapped open on impact and she spilled outside unceremoniously.

She closed her eyes, muffling a sob with her hand, as her husband stepped over her prone form. In the next second, her world spun, she heard a loud _boom_ – gunfire, crackling and burning - her husband's head jerked upwards, his knees bent and he sank down in to mudbeside her.

Samhra finally mustered the courage to relinquish the stiff hand from her mouth, unleashing a terrified yelp at the sight of the motionless man beside her. Her husband was dead – shot with such accuracy; blood poured freely from his head onto the ground beside her. She scrambled backwards, endeavoring to get as far away from his corpse as possible.

With tears blurring her vision, Samhra lifted her eyes and looked down the street, searching for the origin of the gunshot. Hot smoke from gunpowder drifted in and out of her lungs; her muscles ached, and her lungs cried out for air as she searched. Her eyes stung and started to water. Blinking, she peered through the haze and spotted several indistinct silhouettes. Darkness - worsened by the thick cloud of blackness – swirled, screening her with obscurity. The shooter seemed to be watching her calmly; trinkets jingled from his shoulder-length locks as he advanced, his companions following not too far behind, weapons at the ready.

As Samhra cleared her throat clogged with smoke and tears, she held up her arms in surrender. "Please!" she pleaded. "Please, don't shoot."

Within the next few moments, the dark, smoke-filled street was illuminated by lanterns of neighboring homes. Dozens of families stirred from their slumber at the sound of the commotion outside. The light pouring into the street illuminated the shooter in stages: first his legs, then his waist, and then finally his face.

Then, miraculously, like some apparition, through the drifting fumes she finally recognized the tall figure – it was her beloved Songsmith.

"Samhra?" he said incredulously, turning his head. He held up a hand, alerting his men to lower their weapons.

Astonishment rushed across her face when she heard her name on his lips, urging more tears. Memories flashed, sharp and quick; the scent of the marketplace, sunshine warming her cheeks as she watched him strum his guitar, the note she slipped into his fingers before he disappeared into the horizon. She felt a total displacement, like a spinning globe brought to a sudden halt by the light touch of a finger. Even from yards away, she could see his amazement.

A sob caught in her throat. Her Songsmith had returned to save her.

"_Murderer_!"

The bellow caused her to turn to a neighboring home. Angry mobs of men began to pour into the streets, leaving their women and children behind, safe in their homes.

The reunion was over. Her Songsmith's voice called out in warning. "Run! Run!" he yelled. She heard him, but her feet failed to obey.

"I'm innocent!" she screamed. Frozen by the mobs anger - faces reddened and eyes bulging - she felt terrified.

They rushed toward her, chanting the word, "Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!" Hands finally grabbed at her clothes, yanking her in every direction, lifting her into the air and then half carrying her down the street. Samhra then found herself on her back, dazed, ears ringing.

Then _black_.

She reopened her eyes, hearing screams – her screams – as if she was waking from a nightmare, and it took her half a breath to remember where she was.

Frantically kicking, screaming and pleading, she felt herself being dragged along a graveled road, leaving behind a profound channel with traces of fresh blood.

**~o~**

It took both of the crewmen to pull Edward Teague away from the scene, he rushed toward her with all his might, but strong sea-toned arms forced him back. The men hurried him into the darkness of a nearby alleyway where he was pinned to the wall with a strong, commanding forearm across his throat. "We ain't to be beheaded!" Bloodbath hissed. "I coulda stayed in jolly ol' England for that shit. Have ya lost yer goddamn mind?"

With flashing black eyes and a full dark beard, Teague's first mate, affectionately known as "Bloodbath", was a fearsome seven-foot-tall English sea beast, known far and wide for his cruelty, ferocity and tattooed serpents enwreathing his arms.

Bloodbath was perhaps the only man on the Seven Seas that Teague could trust and was quickly made second in command aboard the _Troubadour_. The crew had reacted in shock that such a loathsome looking creature held their fate in his hands, but they learned quickly that he was as fearless in battle as any man Teague had ever witnessed, a seaman to his very bones, that struck fear in the heart of every man who laid eyes on him, friend or foe alike.

"Now, mates, let's not get 'asty 'ere lads," Bloodbath's right-hand man, the elderly but wise Reynolds, said, attempting to smooth things over. It was to no avail; he was met with a deathly glare from the first mate.

Everything after that happened in an instant. Teague drew his pistol so swiftly that Bloodbath hardly saw it. Teague's dark eyes peered at him over the barrel, looming like a black tunnel leading to his soul. "Let's make somethin' clear, aye?" Teague whispered harshly in his ear. "You do exactly as I tell you to do, and perhaps I'll show you mercy." Bloodbath pushed himself to the side, as if in slow motion, trying to dodge but the round chasm of the pistol barrel tracked him unerringly. "You can't run from me."

Suddenly, they heard footsteps outside the alleyway. Voices filtered through just moments later – Arabic, angry and commanding. The men couldn't tell how many voices there were and the sounds were too confusing. The screams from the street slowly began to fade – Samhra was being dragged farther and farther away from him with each squandered moment. Teague's heart was starting to pound in his ears as he continued to survey the alleyway opening. "We can't stay here."

"Edward," Reynolds admonished, "we don't 'ave time for this…"

A long moment went by; hard stares turned frigid, until Teague relinquished his hold, and to Reynolds' relief, Bloodbath started to snicker.

"Got ya, didn't I? I wish ya could 'ave seen yer face, ya little mutt," Bloodbath said, placing a hand on Teague's shoulder in jest.

"Watch your mouth, ya ol' cur," Teague retorted, with a hand firmly positioned on his First Mate's throat. "Waste my time once more and I'll hang your innards from the topsail yards. And that'd jus' for starters. Now, how long have we got?"

"Ten minutes, if I was a wagerin' man," Reynolds replied. "Mayhap less."

"Do they know wha' we look like?" Bloodbath asked, still red-faced.

"Regrettably." Teague sighed, his thoughts stirred as if by a poker rearranging smoldering logs and embers in a hearth. He wouldn't let her die believing he wouldn't come.

Gripping the handle of his pistol, Teague finally said, "I've got a plan."

Reynolds shook his head in disbelief. "Nine minutes."

Pushing Bloodbath away, Teague started off down the street alone, content to face the mob single-handedly, if need be. "I figured that since we've sailed together, you lot wouldn't mind joining." A confident smile appeared on his face when he heard he was being followed with haste. His mind granted him a touch of ease.

It was show time.

**~o~**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The original characters and plots are owned by me.

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><p><strong><em>Chapter 2: The Rogue<em>**

**~o~**

After heaping every species of derision and insult upon their prisoner, the mob of angry men threw Samhra into the darkest and dampest dungeon they could find. The door of that cell was not more than four feet high and the light that dimly revealed the dripping walls and earthen floor shone through a horizontal opening toward the ceiling. The bed served the purpose for both a couch and chair, but was also intended as a partial barrier between the inhabitant of the dungeon and the gaze of the jailers stationed just outside.

Samhra recoiled with disgust; they couldn't find a more terrible place in which to confine a woman.

"You are very hard to please, Madame," replied her brutal jailer, mimicking a female voice. "Compared to where you're going, you're in a palace."

Shutting the massive bars behind him, barricaded with plates of iron and secured by three or four rusty bolts, he left her to repeat his joke to his companions and enjoy with them the consternation of the young woman.

Meanwhile, the prisoner fell upon her knees and gazed around her with incredulous emotion. Samhra called upon her gods to free her of her wrongful imprisonment. She was no murderer.

Shuddering, she decided to lie down on the small bed in the cold, dark room.

The result would be the same whether she confessed or not. If she confessed, her Songsmith's guilt would be clear: they would both be executed. All recantation would be in vain. If she did not confess, the torture they would inflict on her would certainly be repeated— twice, three, or four times.

Shifting to her side, tears gathered in her eyes; she drew one shattered breath and then another, trying to hold them back, but the anguish she felt for what was to come would not go away.

There was nothing she could do then, but sleep. However, sleep was the last thing on her mind. In spite of her exhaustion, she felt fully alert. She stared at the guard through the bars of the door for what seemed like an eternity, watching his body slouch as he fell into a deep, irrefutable sleep.

What happened next was completely unexpected. For just a brief moment, she saw a flash out of the corner of her eye, then again, another flash; the color resembled that of sun-kissed skin mixed with sterling silver - a hand, she determined. Perhaps, she was dreaming. She squinted with more intent. Once more - a third time - it came, and it motioned toward the sleeping guard, from around the corner. Some whispers followed a soft scuffle in the dirt, then silence.

Samhra, still lying on her side, grew curious, rising from her prison bed to kneel in front of the iron bars.

"Go on, boy," urged a voice. Moments later a small, mop-haired dog emerged; his big brown eyes locking onto his target.

"This is never going to work," whispered another, accompanied by soft _shushing _sounds.

The hound's feet hardly made a sound against the dirt floor; Samhra sat perfectly still, as not to divert the determined pup from his purpose. It was a miraculous sight. Placing his front legs on the side of the sleepy guard's chair, he nuzzled the key ring that hung from the guard's side into his mouth and, one paw at a time, returned to the floor.

As quietly as he came, the adorable thief returned to its master. The tall, handsome man that appeared to greet him was adorned in a long crimson frock coat, embroidered with a faded white floral design, and a devilish smile. She could see him clearly then; the skin of his face was far more weathered from the sea than their last meeting, but he still held the same boyish charm.

"Rogue's never failed me," he said, patting the small pup's head as he picked him up with one hand.

The Songsmith waved a hand across his neck, and the signal was picked up loud and clear by the two men that followed.

Knife in hand, one of the men tightly gripped the sleeping guard's mouth and sliced his neck with an uncommon ease. Blood spattering, he held the guard's body in place until he stopped twitching. A gasp escaped Samhra's lips. How could her musician allow such harshness?

"We won't have to worry about him squealin'," said the vicious man through a toothy grin.

"A damn madman is wha' ya are, Bloodbath," croaked the smaller man as he followed the Songsmith to her cell. "Doin' it in front o' the lady, and such. No wonder the King of France put a price on your head."

"I wouldn't fancy your chances o' collectin' it, mate," Bloodbath remarked with a grin.

Rogue, unwilling to let go of his prize, kept a steady grip on the key ring as his master extended one of the three keys into the lock.

"Damn," he whispered, growing impatient. The first key was not the one; he fumbled for another one, knowing that time was of the essence.

A cooling breeze blew past her face, providing some relief to her puffy eyes, stained with tears. Samhra attempted to climb to her feet, hoping the bars would aid her, but she quickly found that any energy she thought she might have left was completely diminished. To her relief, the second key was the winner; her Songsmith swung the door open, placing the pup on the ground in trade for her.

Swallowing hard, he moved to embrace her and she started to weep.

"Are you all right?" he asked her softly, deep brown eyes fixed on hers.

She managed a smile and a nod. "Yes." Her voice was small, like a frightened child. After years of constant belittlement and torture, the stare from any man's eyes caused her to question their motives. The panic was building up within her and she felt herself wanting to retreat to escape it. Not now, she prayed. Please, not now. Her Songsmith was not like the rest.

"Edward Teague," he said, introducing himself as he placed a hand on her cheek, commanding her attention. "I haven't forgotten about you, m'lady."

Samhra stood in awe. There was so much affection radiating from Edward's face. Despite the anguish, the pain, he was beaming with peace. Deep peace and she wanted that so badly.

Her only provider was dead; her family would soon learn of what had taken place. She would be disowned; even worse – executed – for a crime she didn't commit. Samhra's defenses soon began to crumble. Every positive message she had told herself felt like a lie.

"We'll be needin' your help to get us out of here now," Teague said, slowly lowering her legs to the ground. She was grateful that he held onto her waist until she could walk on her own.

She gently rested her hand on his arm, as if to say she understood all that his words conveyed. The journey was engaged, the obligation had been assumed; there would be no turning back; words were no longer needed. There wasn't any turning back for him, either. No matter what happened, they were committed to each other.

"Reynolds," he commanded. With a swift nod, the smaller man wrapped her in a foul-smelling cloak, for which Teague continuously apologized in low whispers. Despite the pain from the brutal beating she had endured from the mob, Samhra knew she had to summon all the energy she had left to escape before it was too late.

If they were going to flee, they needed to act fast. The longer they spent in the city, the greater the chance that their efforts would be discovered. Samhra knew the streets better than anyone.

The group took to their heels and ran. They ran to the middle of the street, and back the way they came. Teague, still gripping Samhra's hand, kept an eye on his crewmen as they continued to surreptitiously scatter and regroup.

The outskirts of the city were just beyond her reach, and then they would be free.

"Stop!"

The word startled them all; looking back they realized they had been spotted.

The guards called out, "Stop right there!"

Bloodbath broke away from the group, and they chased after him down a small alleyway.

"Let him go!" Teague yelled to Reynolds, who slackened his pace as Bloodbath disappeared into the night.

"Stop!" cried the guards. They didn't.

Adrenaline coursed through her body, she could not grasp exactly what to do next, but she kept moving because her life depended on it. She ran as she had done most of her life in her wildest dreams, but this time she was running away from a surreal reality.

"The prisoner has escaped! Sound the alarm!"

Nothing hardened the soul like contact with danger, especially with the danger that brought all of an individual's energy into play, leaving them in the presence of the Powers who command the earth, wind, and tide. Getting out the way she had - taking nothing with her, running for her life through the night - took tremendous courage.

Teague led the way to the narrow beach. Before the long boat reached the shore, the guards closed in on them with swords drawn. Teague's eyes were alight with anticipation. He turned to Reynolds with a broad grin. "Don't let me down, Rey," he said.

With a blood-curdling yell, Teague charged at the guards as Reynolds and Samhra made a break for the sea.

They dove into the ocean and only when she thought her lungs would burst did she surface to see Reynolds and Edward behind her, just their heads bobbing above the water. To her surprise, just as she was ready to give in, she was pulled into the longboat by several strong hands. Struggling with exhaustion, Samhra pushed herself up glanced around, noting that there were two other unfamiliar men manning the oars and both of them glared suspiciously at her. Frightened, she crawled over to Reynolds.

"Give way! Give way, all!" shouted Teague as he pulled himself up to the stern sheets. "Man the oars! Get this boat squared away!" The banks of oars came down and swept the water, and the longboat moved slowly out to sea. About thirty guards ran down to the water's edge, throwing spears at the boat, but twenty feet of water was already between them and the receding boat. Several glanced off its hull, but they were too far out for spears to be effective.

Before Teague or Reynolds could reach for their weapons, a loud bellow filled the air. Out of the corner of her eye, Samhra saw the man they called "Bloodbath" as he ran through the horde of guards at full-speed, and two flashes of bright orange light came from his outstretched arms. Bullets passed through two of the guards hurling spears. Discarding his pistols, Bloodbath unsheathed his cutlass and parried the remaining guards aside, one after another, and with each clash of shaft against blade, the swords sang like a chorus of deadly voices.

It was quite the spectacle.

Bloodbath charged like a bull through the crowd of armed guards and dove into the ocean. He did not emerge. The remaining guards picked up where their fallen comrades left off by continuing to hurl their spears across the water, hoping to make contact with their target. To their dismay, the longboat was far out of their reach by then.

Just as quickly as he'd been pulled below the surface, Bloodbath emerged again, streaming water a few yards away from their vessel.

Gasping, Bloodbath lifted himself up, wrapping an arm around Reynolds to pull himself free of the foam and into the boat.

"I ought to be paid handsomely for this shit," Bloodbath said between gasps.

"Double me shares for havin' to put up with your wild boar arse!" Reynolds declared. "'Ow many escapes does that make now? Three? Madagascar, Napoli, and now Tanjavur." He counted on his fingers. "Half the bloody world is gettin' tired of chasin' ya."

"Good man," Teague said, clapping his first mate on the shoulder.

Samhra imagined that the life of a true sailor was a struggle. And although it was not the same for all, for those who understood its true grandeur, and drew from it a simple strength in the hour of danger became heroism.

She smiled in thanks at the vicious man, for he was her hero that night.

**~o~**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The original characters and plots are owned by me.

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><p><strong><em>Chapter 3: The Treasure<em>**

**~o~**

Every nerve in Teague's body was taut with energy as he watched his crewmen turn the longboat around and rowed back to the _Misty Lady_, which awaited their return within a dark cove east of Manora. With one steady motion, Teague directed four sailors to heave the capstan, hauling the longboat back aboard.

Teague gently directed Samhra to move around behind him. He climbed up the side of the longboat, using the line as a brace. When they reached the rail he jumped over to the deck, offering a hand to her. A nervous smile crossed her lips as he helped her up. The men averted their eyes as Samhra climbed out upon the main deck, mainly due to the deathly glare they received from their captain, who followed closely by her side. The color rose in her cheeks as she passed – a great sense of anxiety overcame her, for she felt fairly exposed, having never before left home without a fine veil.

With a strong, protective arm around her shoulder, Teague lead her forward and she tentatively walked by his side, allowing him to escort her to a large, central cabin beyond prying eyes. Samhra wondered if he could tell that she was beside herself. The short journey upon the longboat had been long enough for Samhra to get her swirling impressions and emotions under control, however, all of her well-ordered thoughts upon boarding the galleon. She struggled to regain her ability to think clearly.

Leading her through the cabin's double doors - with her hand in his - Teague turned her as gracefully as a dancer would his partner.

As she spun, Samhra glanced at the layout of the ship's cabin. A large chart table was its central focus and haphazardly surrounded by stools, which were faded from the glowing sunlight penetrating through sun-bleached drapes. Along the east wall was an open chest that looked as if it were bolted to the dark floorboards. The chest, in turn, was filled with books; old books - small, leather-bound, and positively ancient - with a thick layer of dust suggesting they hadn't been deemed useful for quite a while.

At the end of her twirl, Teague centered her with a gentle hand on her waist, which brought her back to the present. Releasing her from the pirouette, he removed his fine feathered hat and ran a hand through his thick, dark locks. He looked anxious for a moment, but a crooked smile suddenly snagged the corner of his lip.

Against the starboard wall, there was another doorway to which he led her; within lay a narrow bed and nothing more.

An odd sense of foreboding gripped her. Had she made a serious mistake?

"Don't mind the mess," he said softly; his eyes sparkled with innocence for a brief moment, as if he had never shown a lady his bedchamber. With a hurried bow, Teague excused himself with a wary smile, to allow Samhra some time with her thoughts.

As Teague shut the great double doors behind him with a bang, Samhra realized that she was finally alone for the first time in her life. She made her way around the cabin, eyes grazing the titles of countless novels in the old sea chest. Curiosity tugged at her; she had never read anything from the Western World.

Taking a random book from the top of the pile, she sat down on the uncomfortable bed, and wondered if there was anything she could do to cheer the place up a bit. The bedspread would be the first item to be discarded, seeing that it reeked of alcohol, with just a hint of vomit.

Delicately turning to the first page of the book, a smile painted her lips. Perhaps she could brush up on her English.

**~o~**

Over the course of the next day, she never saw Teague alone. Once the ship was out of Tanjavur and the anchor stowed, Samhra concluded that the discipline of sea life was monotonously recurrent, just as the pulse of the ocean swell. Decks were sanded and swept daily, the hands went to breakfast at half-past seven, throughout the forenoon there were fifty jobs for the mate and the boatswain to give the crew.

Samhra could not begin to catalogue the many needs of a sailing ship, and decided it would be best if she kept to herself throughout the day so as not to disrupt the order. A sailor was never allowed the luxury of indolence; there was always something to be done.

Life on the sea was a hard on a man. She expected that if a man made up his mind to go to sea, he not only anticipated rough living and cheerless toil, but welcomed it.

The commotion aboard the vessel seemed to die down just after supper. Samhra had been confined to her small "nest" for most of the day, and was eager to take in some fresh air on deck at the opportune moment. Furthermore, she had decided early that morning, that it would be appropriate to surprise her Songsmith, Bloodbath and Reynolds and properly thank them for their efforts in her escape.

She gently pulled on the door that lead to the central room, quietly opening it, but stopped when it was no more than cracked, as she heard strange voices outside. Without realizing that she was eavesdropping, she peeked through the crack in the door.

The great cabin of the _Misty Lady _was beautiful in the evening - lit with candles in glass lanterns that cast the softest of lights, which flickered across the wooden walls and floorboards.

Once her eyes adjusted to the lustrous glow, she quickly realized that the main cabin was being bombarded by members of the ship's crew. Samhra spotted Teague's familiar face at the forefront, as he took a seat at the center -table with his guitar.

Bloodbath stormed into the cabin right behind Teague, swearing at a hardy, handsome, fair-haired man who looked far too young to be smoking on an old fashioned pipe. "This has the makin's of a fuckin' mutiny!" Bloodbath yelled incredulously, throwing his arms up in the air. "'Ow dare ya question the cap'n in front of the entire crew. This ain't yer show, Finnegan!"

"I'll not be ignorin' the concerns of the masses, like some people on this ship," Finnegan retorted, puffing up his chest, but Bloodbath was broader along his torso and shoulders than Finnegan would ever be. With great defiance - and stupidity, in Samhra's opinion – Finnegan blew a large cloud of smoke in Bloodbath's face.

Without missing a beat, Bloodbath pushed him forcefully against the wall, and muttered, "You ain't thinkin' straight, are ya, mate?" He forcefully jabbed the side Finnegan's head with two fingers, pushing the young sailor's skull into the wood with each prod. "Bloody lucky yer father was a good man, otherwise I'd…"

"Enough!" Teague ordered. The room fell silent as he gripped Bloodbath's shoulder, pulling the first mate down beside him before he could throw Finnegan overboard.

"May I assume that Mr. Finnegan was just expressin' his unease over the latest incidents?" Teague looked around the table, as if inviting suggestions from his fellows, but none seemed forthcoming, and he snorted sourly.

Finnegan hesitated for a moment, adjusting himself as he began pacing with great frustration. "Damn righ', I am! How much longer are we gonna chase after ghosts, Teague?" he finally asked. "Yer leadin' us straight to the Locker."

Teague strummed his guitar once, listened, and said, "The tablets are real."

The last man to enter the cabin appeared to be carrying more scrolls than he could possibly handle. Samhra examined his candlelit face; he looked much like a clumsy old mouse. "We've looked at the coordinates an' maps time and time again," he said, accidentally dropping more than half the scrolls on the ground as he fumbled for the correct one.

Teague looked up at the man briefly, before gliding his fingers loosely along the strings. "You didn't look hard enough," he affirmed.

The mousey man pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose as he unrolled the proper scroll before Teague's eyes. "There was nothin' there!" he exclaimed, tracing a zigzag route on the page. "We've sailed our course an' scoured the land. We can't keep doin' this, not with the Company on every dock."

"Ol' folklore, if ya ask me," chimed in another flaxen young man, who stood, with arms crossed, beside Finnegan. "Opium trade is bringin' in better profits these days, cap'n."

"Aye!" Finnegan yelled in agreement. "I side wit' Fitz on that one. I say we alter course to better our fortunes! Mr. Chaplin can chart our course to th' Far East."

An accompaniment of "Ayes!" quickly followed.

"The deepest circle of Hell is reserved for betrayers and mutineers … mark me words, Finn." Bloodbath spat at their feet.

"Only fools put their lives at the mercy of the Company," Teague said, almost chuckling at the thought.

"The tablets are genuine," Bloodbath asserted. "Iffen we make the damn effort we'll find 'em."

_Crack._

The door she had been leaning against opened just barely, but it was enough for the arguing to stop in its tracks. The small group of men looked over their shoulders at the interruption.

She swore to herself and appeared through the doorway and tried unsuccessfully to smile. Samhra's cheeks grew hot, embarrassed for herself and for Teague. Dabbing at the moisture on her forehead with the back of her hand, she realized her face was still sprinkled with sand from her escape.

"Perpetual trouble, aye?" murmured Bloodbath over his shoulder, Teague smirked. "Suits 'er nicely."

"Excuse me," she said awkwardly, bowing her head. "I didn't mean to interrupt..."

They looked at each other, and then back at her. Teague's eyes moved around the room, passing over the men with cool indifference, until they came to rest on Samhra. The stare he gave her was more than simple curiosity. There was concern there—only a little—but it was there. Concern for her.

Then she smiled. That smile, she realized, was just about the bravest thing she had ever done in her life in front of a group of men.

However, the other looks were not so welcoming, and rather fierce in comparison; her heart thumped hard again and something close to fear curled in the pit of her stomach, but she didn't let it fester. Realizing that she should make her way out as quickly as possible, Samhra almost stumbled over her feet with haste, and the door seemed farther away than usual.

"Don't run too fast, might trip o'er yer rags!" Someone yelled as her shoulder pushed through the double doors.

Then they all laughed, until a cord was plucked off key, a gunshot fired, and then the room fell silent again.

The night was late, and the sky dark. Completely preoccupied from a combination of fear and curiosity from the scene in the great cabin, Samhra nearly jumped out of her skin when she ran into a shadowy figure standing just outside the cabin doors. Turning abruptly, she realized – to her relief – that she had stumbled into the arms of Mr. Reynolds.

Reynolds found it difficult not to burst out laughing as he aided the frightened woman in regaining her balance. Then, he lifted his hands in the air as a sign of surrender. "No need to be fearful, Miss. S'alright."

Samhra exhaled in relief, looking up at the older man as she flashed him a smile. Although she couldn't understand his speech too well, his voice was nicely modulated and gentle, and the goodwill shining from his gleaming countenance was unmistakable. They walked to the starboard rail together, and she realized that she felt quite comfortable in his presence.

The sea was white with foam, and dark, heavy clouds were scudding swiftly over the surface of it and across the sky.

Samhra's feet were naked, and her tousled hair escaped from a wretched, old handkerchief that she had thrown upon her head. As clouds covered the horizon and large raindrops began to fall, she unraveled the knot, and let her tresses fall to her waist.

"This is a nightmare," Samhra said in disdain, shutting her eyes and wishing that she could just wake up. When she was a child her mother had said if one could do that in a nightmare, it would go away.

Reynolds fidgeted uncomfortably. It was quite obvious to her that he had not comforted someone, in a long while. "Aye, for now, it might be, Miss," said with a sigh.

"It must be hard to lead so many men, when there are so many causes they wish to pursue," she whispered before burying her nose in her garments to keep warm.

"Cap'n knows best," he said confidently, looking unfazed at the chilly weather. "'Sides, I think he's not really listenin' anyway."

Placing a hand over her mouth, she let out a small laugh. She remembered the expression on Teague's face; she could tell that he was more preoccupied with his instrument being in proper tune, than the complaints of a few crewmates.

Suddenly, they were both pitched forward; a clear difference in the movement of the ship. She was no longer raised like a cork with the waves, but heavy crashes swept the bows and her foredeck. Setting her feet firmly on the floor, she stumbled as the ship rocked to one side.

Samhra gasped at the sudden shift. It took her a moment or two, with the help of Reynolds' sturdy hand, for her to regain her balance. By then, most of the crew was out on the main deck, reefing the sails.

At that point she felt tears sting her eyes and a sob shook her core.

"Don't fret, Miss," Reynolds advised her amidst the chaos. "We 'ave a favorable wind on our side. Madagascar is a few days west of 'ere."

"Is that where the tablets are?" she asked quickly, not realizing that the information she overheard could have been sensitive.

In an instant, his usual calm, upbeat demeanor shifted to nervous anxiety. "I'm not sure what yer goin' on about..." his voice trailed as he quickly found interest in a loose coil of rope on deck. Lifting the coil over his shoulder, Reynolds shot across deck with great haste.

Unwilling to let the rain hinder her pursuit of the truth, Samhra furrowed her brow and followed the secretive old man. "So, that was not your ear on the door just earlier?"

Reynolds glared at her over his shoulder, but only for a moment. "What do I look like? A nosy ol' biddy?"

"Mister Reynolds!" Samhra exclaimed. Her tone caused him and half the men on deck to turn as well. "What are the tablets?"

"Shush!" he hushed her with a finger over his mouth. Dropping the coil of rope, Reynolds barked several foreign commands to the surrounding crew, and grabbed Samhra's arm. Leading her halfway down the main deck's companionway, he released her and said, "Don't speak so loudly!"

"I don't care who hears me!" Samhra cried; surprised at her own courage to do so.

"Aye, well ya should! The last thing ya need is a mutiny, Missy," he retorted. "For yer sake and me own."

Reynolds exhaled loudly, running his hand through the few wet, gray hairs left on his head. He was attempting to keep his temper in, shooting several glances at her and the descending stairway, before deciding it would be safe enough to talk.

"The Tablets of Destiny," he whispered with a hesitant sigh, "have been an issue since day one. From what I've been gatherin' over the months, it's got somethin' to do with rulin' the world."

"Tablets of the Gods do not belong in the hands of men," Samhra urged softly.

"I suppose yer right," he answered before any further protest. "I doubt anyone on this ship would be good at rulin' much of anythin', but I reckon, a pocket full of gold to bring home would be a mighty fine thing, aye?"

Samhra thought of the notion for a moment, immediately deciding against it. Throughout her life, she had always been taught that the arc of her god's purpose was far-reaching and that no mere mortal could handle such vision and responsibility; he can only be glad to possess the power of faith. Gold, silver and shining trinkets could not buy a man the power to measure up to such a task. "We must warn ..."

"Warn?" he interrupted, pointing his finger at her in frustration. "You want to be safe? Then you know nothin', got it? Neither do I. There be enough trouble on this ship."

Nodding in agreement, Samhra could see that Reynolds had relaxed a bit. Although, he still huffed something about 'women' and 'bad luck' under his breath as he led her back up the steps.

Samhra looked at him inquisitively. "Why were you not in the cabin with the rest of them?"

"Full of questions tonight are ya, lass?" he chuckled wearily, leaning against the wooden railing. "I'll admit, those meetings are better than the theater on most nights … not that I'm a man of the arts or anythin'," he added defensively. "I be naught but a deckhand and an ol' friend of Bloodbath's."

Samhra looked into his kindly old eyes. "Where's home for you, Mister Reynolds?" she asked curiously, imagining that he must've been feeling the same heartache as she.

"London, with me son," he replied with a smile. "Grown boy now, been away from 'im so long … almost don't remember what he looks like."

"I'm sure he understands," she whispered, attempting to reassure him.

"Aye, maybe 'im." He nodded, lowering his eyes to the boards at his feet. "Good thing, too, 'cause his mum sure don't."

Reynolds looked at her and his expression seemed very sad for a moment. Then he rushed on in a stronger voice. "Best be gettin' to bed, young lady … Better for everyone's health to not be meddlin' in ship politics."

**~o~**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The original characters and plots are owned by me.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Chapter 4: The Empress<em>**_**  
><strong>_  
><strong>~o~<strong>

The next morning, Samhra woke early in her new room and lay on her back, watching the sunlight entwine with dust in its radiant beams. She wondered how long she would have to reside within the confinement of such a small space; it was cozy and tight, almost like a sunny cave.

Rising to her feet, she tossed the musty bedspread to the floor and spread it with her feet. Samhra decided early on in her life that lack of a temple or shrine would not hinder her from her faith. The insight she gained from prayer was fruitful and had always brought her peace when her mind was restless. Dropping to her knees, she softly chanted the Gayatri mantra, feeling the serenity of her chants begin to enlighten her soul.

The scratching on the door popped her out of her chanting cycle. She recognized the sound as soon as she heard it. A wide smile appeared on her face as she rose to open the door and found that the small mop-haired thief had not forgotten about her.

Rogue came rushing into her room, overflowing with joy, wagging his tail furiously and leaping up to steal a kiss from his new best friend. It was as if he were saying, "I know you're glad to see me, for I have brought you something!"

At last, Samhra caught him by the tail - which he could not stop wagging - and got her arm around his neck, untying the note that dangled from a makeshift rope collar. She gave him a kiss atop his head as she unrolled the small piece of parchment.

_Carpe Diem._

The scribble was uniquely beautiful. Running her thumb over the lettering, she thought to herself for a moment, suckling her bottom lip as she pondered the meaning of the wording. She planted yet another kiss on the pup's head and placed him down on the ground; he scrambled out of the room almost as fast as he came.

**~o~**

It was a beautiful, cloudless day. The sun almost vertical, streaking the waters with its golden rays, caused the deep blue to assume an amber tint. All was solemn and still, the _Misty Lady_ was alone on the wide expanse of sea - a brilliant force that slowly glided through the deep, under the instruction of the sun and its gentle currents.

The main deck was full of men, yet there was none of that bustle and life they usually presented. Stillness reigned from stem to stern, broken only by the slight murmur of voices from the main deck or the ripple of a wave as the ship pursued her course.

In an hour's time, Samhra found herself out on the main deck; eyes gazing steadily out to sea as the wind raged over her face and through her hair. The sight before her was breathtaking.

Although, the events of the previous evening still echoed in her mind, truthfully, she couldn't concentrate on much else besides the dangerous thrill of being in Teague's arms again. Memories began fluttering, recalling candles shimmering in the hazy distance, how the room spun, and how his unique scent – a combination of spice, sweat, and something indefinable - enveloped her.

Not only did she feel graceful, but for the first time in five years, she felt free. Free of her obligations, free of worry, free of guilt. Like a bird out of her cage, flying for the very first time.

Suddenly, before she could realize how long she had been flying, she heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps from the companionway behind her. "Woman!" The word snapped her back to reality.

Samhra turned to find Finnegan, galloping up the stairway two steps at a time; his pipe fastened between his teeth.

With no thought to the propriety of the matter, she examined him. She could not deny that he was a handsome man, so unique in appearance that the notion fascinated her. Long legs, strong features, the fairest of skin, and rich cornsilk hair, which shone radiantly white in the mid-day sun. She raised her eyes as he approached, timidly at first; to meet two pools of dark blue that were so close to her own. The look he gave her seemed to burn into her very soul.

However, the devil wore many masks, she considered.

Smoke from his long, wooden pipe tainted the air as he said, "Your presence has been requested in the Captain's quarters."

Samhra nodded in response, lowering her eyes to the ground as she began to make her way to the stairs.

As she passed, Finnegan reached out to grasp her arm and drew her close. Samhra winced from the strength of his grip, and attempted to pull away. She considered screaming, but Finnegan was too close then.

With his lips grazing her ear, he whispered, "Perhaps, we shall request your presence in the crew's quarters later on." He smiled a horrible, yellow grin and let her go.

Half disgusted, half angered, Samhra ran down the stairs, feeling pain in her arm, but she was both unwilling and unable to make herself slow down.

A great sense of relief came when she finally reached great double doors, though her heart was still racing and she could not help her shaky, rapid knocks. She finally heard a well-remembered voice bidding her enter, and once inside, she shut the door, and stood with her back against it, catching her breath.

"Lovely, as always," Teague said, tearing his eyes away from the documents before him.

He must be joking, she thought. Her saris were stained and her raven hair was a tangled mess. Attempting to tame it, Samhra tied it to the side, letting her tousled locks cascade down her right shoulder.

On the other hand, Teague looked handsome, all that black hair framing his strong-looking face, though his garments were so worn and haggard, he still held the fullness of his handsome youth. Leaning back in his chair, he crushed the sheet of paper in his hand. "Did Rogue find you well enough?" he inquired with a smile, rising from the chart table where he sat. It was obvious he was in the midst of plotting the course in which the vessel would take.

Clasping her hands before her, Samhra nodded and said simply, "He is a gentleman."

"Steals all the lady's hearts, that one – don't stand a chance anymore." He offered her a seat in one of the few furnished chairs in the room, and pulled up a chair of his own.

"Although, I didn't quite understand the message," she admitted shyly.

She was still flushed with fear and hoped he hadn't noticed. Thoughts of the conversation she overheard the previous evening began to flood her mind. Unsure of what to think, she sat down beside him, grateful to be off her feet and away from the devil named Finnegan.

"I've come across somethin' that you might like, lass," he said, changing the conversation.

Samhra watched him curiously as he reached into the pocket of his crimson frockcoat which hung from his chair; he revealed a small brush set. It wasn't just any brush set either; it was a silver-backed brush, comb and mirror – it looked just like her mother's. Teague handed the items to her, looking confident and content. He must have realized that she had none of her own personal items and that pirate ships were not exactly made to accommodate a woman.

"Thought you might need this," he whispered, analyzing her expression.

Her smile widened as she gave him a tender look; her heart melted as childhood memories of times shared brushing her mother and sisters hair began to replay in her mind. "It is beautiful," she said, admiring the silver back. He looked quite pleased with himself.

Running her hands long the slick surface of the brush, Samhra frowned at the disturbance of the East India Company seal beneath her fingers. "You're employed by the Company?" she asked, with a measure of disappointment.

"Would rather die," he answered quickly. Teague hesitated for a moment. "Turn for me, love."

She did, slowly, and just as her back was to him, she felt his breath against her cheek, followed by fingers in her hair.

Her eyes widened and panic began to set in. Teague's hands gripped her shoulders gently, as if he sensed her fear. "What are you doing?" she managed to ask.

Softly shushing in her ear, he whispered, "Allow me." Teague gripped the brush in Samhra's hand, and pulled it from her fingers. Untying her makeshift bow, he ruffled her hair until it hung free down to her waist. She felt the brush at the crown of her head; it caught and held, beginning the long journey down and down, pulling nerves to life as it went.

He held a small, silver mirror before her. "You are far too tense," he said, smiling at her in the mirror.

She looked at herself. Odd how seldom she'd done that in the past few years, not since she was married. She had not wanted to see her face – scarred and bruised – afraid that she might frighten herself. Samhra returned a timid smile after a long moment, quickly recoiling when the cut on her lip reopened. Licking her lips, she took the handle of the mirror and asked, "Was it your intention to come back for me?"

Teague brushed her hair from scalp to waist – ten strokes, fifty; a hundred. Her tresses, too straight, too thick, too_ everything _for fashion, resisted. He pressed on.

"Were you afraid that I wouldn't?" Teague asked as he stood; Samhra quickly turned to face him.

"I'm not one to be remembered," she replied with measure of sadness.

Handing off the brush to her, Teague made his way toward a large trunk by the chart table.

Kicking it open, he reached down and pulled out a beautiful golden fabric; it was truly a work of art. The piece reflected the color of sunlight as if it were dancing, emitting colorful sounds into her soul, and joyful freedom in her heart. "You're not one I was willin' to forget," he retorted, sauntering back to her with the material in hand.

He lifted her to her feet and Samhra couldn't help the wide smile she wore when he began wrapping the sari around her, giggling when he couldn't figure out the proper way to fold it. Holding up the mirror once more, Teague chuckled. "It's not terrible, is it?"

She smiled at herself in the mirror. "It's radiant," she said with a sigh, grazing the edges of the silky cloth gently with her fingertips.

Never in her life had she received such a beautiful gift and as she turned to thank him for the stunning endowment, Teague replied, "Not as radiant as you."

Samhra's cheeks grew hot, feeling unexpectedly shy with him. He was so kind to her, and she had no way to reciprocate or even thank him, and as her eyes met his, he bent toward her slowly, and kissed her top lip gently.

She pulled back from him - a habit she developed from the time she spent with her abusive husband. Furrowing his brow, Teague realized the sudden change in her demeanor. Gently drawing lines down her neck with his fingers; he pushed her sari aside on one shoulder.

"No, please. Don't." She quickly pulled it back into place.

"Is this why you fear me?" A flicker of anger shone in his eyes. "He did this to you?"

Samhra trembled as he pushed the sari back again, so that he could see the extent of her bruising. She sobbed softly. "Yes, it was my husband."

"He deserved a far more painful hand than the one I dealt," he affirmed, wiping tears from her cheeks with his coarse fingertips.

"I'm scared," she said, lips trembling.

"Don't be," he told her. He drew her against him, and wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her forehead.

She was so surprised that she didn't resist when he kissed her again.

Nevertheless, their momentary bliss was short-lived; the cry of "Sail! Sail!" was heard from the mast head.

Teague's eyes quickly focused away from her. "Stay here," he urged, but as he turned to leave her, she could not help but follow.

The scene she found beyond the great cabin's double doors was a frenzy of preparation; cannons were being moved into place; Bloodbath was shouting orders as the crew brought up ammunition from the lower decks.

Samhra moved quickly behind Teague as he climbed the quarterdeck stairway, taking a place beside him at the rail, he seemed too focused to mind her presence. The rapid interrogation commenced. "How does she bear?" was his response as Bloodbath appeared on the quarterdeck.

"One point before the starboard beam, Sir!" he yelled. All eyes and glasses were turned in that direction. The ship on their starboard side loomed up like a white cloud and possessed sails that went with the wind.

"She's a junk," Teague said.

"A junk?" Bloodbath said, confused. "What's it doin' way out 'ere?"

"It's the _Empress_," Teague corrected, scanning the distance with his spyglass. "Haven't laid eyes on her in years."

"I bloody hate Singapore," Bloodbath snarled.

Samhra's sharp vision recognized the distinct design of the sailing ship. The eye that was painted on the green hull sparked her memory before anything else. It reminded her of the Chinese trading vessels that had docked in Tanjavur every so often to import persimmons and fine silks.

"Little too far out of their territory, are they?" Bloodbath cracked his knuckles. "Must be lost."

"Looks like Ching's new lackey wants to talk," Teague said with a devious smirk.

Bloodbath snickered under his breath, the implication was obvious. "Aye, let's help 'im find his way, then," he said, signaling the crew to hold their fire.

For now.

**~o~**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The original characters and plots are owned by me.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 5: The Law of the Sea<strong>_

**~o~**

Within the hour, the _Misty Lady_ altered its course toward the junk,and by that time, most of the crew was on the main deck in clusters, and of course, numerous surmises of the _Empress_' intentions danced on the tongues of every man aboard.

"Silence, ya bloody chambermaids," Bloodbath bellowed, like perfectly timed gunfire. "Silence! Fore and aft!"

To Samhra's great surprise, a surge of excitement swept through her. She simply couldn't take her eyes off of the vessel in the distance. As her gaze hardened, she found herself forcefully propelled forward by the crowd, and following closely behind Bloodbath as Teague parted the masses in front of them with the most terrifying glare.

For twenty or so minutes, the _Lady_ battled against the wind and tide of the Arabian Sea. A great squall came on, causing them to lose sight of the Asian vessel, but all were anxiously on the look-out.

Teague gained the quarterdeck in three powerful strides, grabbing the spyglass from his first mate; he pointed it toward the dark plume of smoke rising from the distant ship. Her main mast was shattered and lying over the rail and the weight of her sails and rigging were pulling the ship toward the water. Half her underbelly glistened in the midday sun and the sea broke over her with great clouds of foam.

With the aid of his telescope, Teague watched as the crew's desperate attempt to pull the top portion of the mast back on board before it capsized the vessel. It truly was a frantic and dangerous struggle with the deck tilted so sharply. Several men were already overboard, trying to keep their heads above water.

"Trouble ahead?" Bloodbath enquired quietly, noticing Teague couldn't quite meet his gaze.

_Not yet_, he thought, with eyes fixated upon the ground. Instinctively, his body tightened only a fraction – senses sharpened. "Full canvas," he ordered.

"To stations!" Bloodbath ordered across the deck, without a moment's thought.

"Full canvas!" roared the crew in unison, as they scurried among the rigging, untying the _Lady's _elegant, white sails. The canvas snapped before capturing the thriving gales of the Trade Winds.

Weapons were pulled from the crates they were stored in, and the crew leaned over the rails to pull up the hatches covering the cannon portals. Each man knew his duties well.

Samhra stood by, dumbfounded. It was as if she were enchanted, as if she had no control over herself, as if an unknown force was determined to make her a part of the dangerous scene unfolding before her_._ From what she could construe, the _Empress_ was in no condition to engage them.

For a time, Samhra kept her eyes fixed on the back of Teague's neck, terrified of losing him in the commotion. As the crowd shifted in front of her, blocking her view, she sidestepped a few men and pushed forward, searching for her Songsmith. But, she was lost in mere moments among the mob of purposeful sailors. It wasn't until she collided into Reynolds' hard enough to knock a gasp out of her lungs that she realized she shouldn't dare move any further.

"That's two brave, yet foolish, things you've done today," Reynolds scolded, absorbing the impact as if she were a butterfly.

She had been so entranced that she wasn't sure where she was. Her breath had come in rapid gasps. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't. There's no need to fret. Just do me a favor, lass - stay with me. Capn's orders." The harshness of his tone made her pause. Reynolds may have known that the ship wasn't in jeopardy, but she didn't. In truth, he had told her nothing to truly reassure her that she had no reason to fear, whether she was below decks or dangling on a rope attached to the ship's main mast.

As the crippled ship drew near; the scent of smoke from the damaged ship grazed their nostrils with the upwind. Lifting the spyglass once more, Teague ran his gaze along the tilting deck of the ship, searching for a flag or some sort of identifying marker among the panicked crew. If she were occupied by the British, he would risk a great deal coming to her aid.

At a hundred yards, all uncertainty and doubt was destined, in this case, to be of very short continuance. With a final glance through the spyglass, Teague spotted his marker - an ornate cloth strewn across the main deck. Conditions on the ship were so desperate; no one had time to raise the flag. He scanned the length of the ship, identifying the most critical damage, and dropped the telescope, no longer needing it.

Many a pirate wouldn't approach another ship in distress, but he was taught differently. He wouldn't stand idle while its crew went to a watery grave; saving it was the law of the sea. Men had crippled the ship, not fate.

His own mood darkened with the knowledge that his brethren were battling to survive. Looking up, he checked the sails to ensure that every inch of canvas was being put to use.

They weren't going fast enough and frustration built inside of him. The expanse of water between the _Empress _and the_ Lady_ looked twice the distance by then.

"Stand by with boarding ropes!" Teague sent a call down to the deck, emotion lacing his normally calm, controlled voice. More than one head turned to cast an eye toward him.

His men surged to the port side of the ship, carrying large hooks attached to thick hemp rope lines. With practiced hands, they swung the heavy hooks in widening circles before letting them fly over the rail, arching across the space between the two ships and over the higher rail of the _Empress_.

As the hooks caught, Teague's men heaved the lines taunt, joining the effort himself, his arms straining to pull the other ship back from capsizing. It was their strength against the pull of Poseidon himself.

The men could hear the frantic chipping sound of an ax being wielded on the sails and rigging, but the _Lady_ lent her weight to the struggle, keeping the _Empress_ from leaning too far to recover.

A cheer went up from the _Empress_' crew when the last remaining sail was cut free. Her hull crashed toward the surface of the ocean, sending up a cascade of water. Consequently, it crashed along the men holding the ropes on the _Lady_, and both ships rocked violently before settling back into a gentle roll. The lines holding the ships together were pulled tight.

Teague and Bloodbath boarded the junk ship in one leap, with many of the crew following. The fire had sizzled out when the ship rightened herself, and only steam rose from the front of the vessel by then. The scent of smoke was still thick, causing the men on deck to cough, and filled their eyes red with irritation.

"Liang Dao! Captain Liang Dao!" Teague shouted through the mass of confusion upon the _Empress_' main deck. Splintered wood lay on polished boards. Several men were at the far rail, attempting to pull their comrades up from the sea. Black powder coated every surface, a testimony to the battle the crew waged to defend themselves.

"They took the captain!" yelled a soot-darkened crewman as he reached up to tug on his hat out of habit, but there was nothing left on his head.

"Who?" Teague tried to control the volume of his voice, but his anger sent the question out in a bellow.

"The bastard British." Men cursed oaths around them, faces reflecting their fury.

Teague's jaw clenched; his rage burning hotter than the Caribbean sun. Grasping at the Asian man's vest, he shook him furiously. "Liang Dao is a Pirate Lord-"

"_Was_! Liang Dao _was_ a Pirate Lord… and he was my brother!" the young man cried, cutting off Teague's words with his own bite of vehemence.

With shaking fingers, he fumbled with a small object that hung from a rope around his neck. And as he held the jade knot before him, the young man regained a new sense of purpose. "And now I am captain."

**~o~**

The sun was dipping under the horizon and gentle calm rippled over the sea. The swell had driven the _Misty Lady_ so rapidly toward shore that they could see the breakers falling over, rumbling like thunder.

An ominous quiet settled over the great cabin. There were a dozen sailors, all armed, and all looking to their leaders. Something had to happen.

Samhra looked onto the gathering from the safety of her nest. Something loomed up at her side and pushed against her leg. She flinched and stopped moving, then relaxed. _You again_? She thought, beaming as she picked him up and buried her nose in his soft fur. Rogue squirmed in delight, burrowing deeper into her neck. She took pleasure in his happiness and held him close to her breast, like an infant.

Pressing her cheek against the door frame, Samhra scanned the Asian captain's traditional garb. He appeared to exemplify the traditional mold of a young, handsome, reckless Chinese male - a swash-buckling Malay sailor.

Beneath all the soot, on his face, he wore a small mustache that complimented the dark, plaited ponytail. His dark robes were layered with a shoulder guard and an armor-plated belt inset with precious stones, unknown to her. It was easy to think of him as a captain as he wore the mantle of command naturally and capably, as If he had been born to it. Whoever else the young man may have been didn't matter, his purpose was clear and he was a man worthy of Teague's respect - worthy of his loyalty.

As the young man endeavored to establish his presence, it became apparent that the caliber of Teague's confidence was unbounded – a man secure in his surroundings. The candlelight tinted his ruffled dark hair a deep, smoldering red. "What was your business here…?"

"Sao Feng," the man answered. "I am not at liberty to speak."

"Where have they taken Liang Dao?" he pressed on to more important matters.

"Cannot say," the young man sputtered. "They sailed to the north."

"Got a whole lot of nothin' to say for yourself then, Captain Feng?" Bloodbath retorted sarcastically.

Teague drew in a long, deep breath, and nodded. It was a futile effort. The Company had crippled the ship in hopes of sinking her. He battled the urge to give chase immediately, and squashing that impulse took every bit of discipline he owned.

He could not leave Liang Dao's crew at the mercy of the sea. One good squall and the _Empress_ would sink. It would take every man on both ships to keep her afloat.

"You're unable to sail under your own power," Teague finally said, rising from his chair. "Bloodbath shall take the helm of the _Empress_ and the _Lady_ will tow it to port."

"Unacceptable!" Sao Feng exclaimed. "I am captain! Only I shall stand at the helm." He emphasized his last point by pounding his fist on the table.

When he spoke again his voice was low, and yet it seemed to fill the entire space of the room. "And you will, with extra hands," he assured, understanding of the young captain's resistance. "There'll be no arguin' the point."

"Just what I need - a ruddy dinghy that can barely stay afloat," Bloodbath muttered, sneering at the foreign crew, "and a crew that can't speak a lick of 'nglish."

Teague's gaze moved from Sao Feng to Bloodbath. More conversation passed between them in that single look than any words or mind-speak imaginable. His look could have melted an iceberg. Bloodbath winced and muttered, "Bloody pirates - always takin' the fun out of things…"

_Pirates? _A sudden chill skidded up Samhra's spine.

Pirates were the enemy, according to what she had been taught - scoundrels and thieves who stole from her people without hesitation. For years, pirates from neighboring Christian nations believed that raiding Muslim and Hindu vessels was not a real crime — and was actually very profitable. Horrible memories of raids and violence began to flood her mind. A single tear worked its way down her face as she rocked Rogue back and forth.

Rogue curved his neck around, nudging Samhra out of her daze and licking her in his effort to comfort her. Summoning up her strength once more, she continued to look on as the men dispersed from the cabin, all with the exception of Teague.

Bracing a hand on the low overhang, he leaned his head against his bicep until the doors finally closed behind him with an ominous thud. The waves swelled in the wake of the ship yet he stood as still as a statue. She noted that his gaze drifted to the floor and his jaw flexed. She didn't know what to say or feel. She held Rogue a bit tighter. A thousand emotions whirled through her – confusion, disappointment, fear.

Her Songsmith wasn't what she'd thought him to be. Maybe that was her own fault. She had built him up into a legend no man could possibly compete with.

Even though she had dreamed and fantasized of his return to her, she'd never really considered him one of them – not a _pirate_ - anything but that.

The notion truly didn't make sense to her. How could a man capable of such kindness also be capable of such ruthlessness. He didn't have to come back to save her life. He could have killed Sao Feng's crew, but he didn't. He could have turned his back on the _Empress_, but again, he didn't.

Samhra looked down at Rogue, who peered back at her with sad, brown eyes, and saw the same thing: a great and loving heart. Her own life, past and present, was difficult, a litany of abuse, bad luck and hard times. But like Teague, she had made a choice, and like him, she could easily have been bitter and resentful. Instead, however battered, she had chosen to free herself from such a life.

Rogue looked to her, worried. _Could a dog look worried?_ She thought, yawning. The pup yawned and flicked his tongue.

"I suppose that's enough for one night, then?" She heard a quick, high whine, and flapping ears.

Apparently, this was no ordinary dog.

**~o~**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The original characters and plots are owned by me.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 6: The Pirate Camp<strong>_

_**~o~**_

The sun burst over the eastern horizon, painting brilliant colors where the sky met the distant lands, yielding a new day. A light breeze wafted around the bustling crew on deck, bringing the fresh, familiar smell of the salty sea. Within two days of encountering the junk ship, they had finally arrived at Madagascar.

Two days at sea had given the crew time to rest and compose themselves. It was a bright day, with just enough wind to move them along at a comfortable pace. Off the starboard side, the green shoreline was just visible. But it was much too early in the day to sneak into the cove without being seen. The_ Misty Lady_ sailed in circles, towing the_ Empress_ behind. Every eye and ear was alert to detect the approach of any Company vessels.

Samhra's mind was circling too, and she hadn't slept. Tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes on to the mattress beneath her. She turned to face its cool, muffling softness and bit her lip, not wanting anyone to know that she was crying. So much had happened in the last few days, and it was all so extraordinary, that she kept reviewing it, wondering what would come next. It didn't make sense to her. She felt uncomfortable with Teague: who he was, what he had failed to tell her, and even worse, the fact that he had not sought her out since Sao Feng's arrival, were all cause for concern.

All last night, she had lain awake, staring at the ceiling as she remembered the feel of his lips. And she knew she should have been ashamed and horrified by her behavior. She was always proper and reserved – never had she considered behaving recklessly with any man. This was something entirely different: some impulse had taken hold of her, imploring her to act rashly. She wanted so badly to touch him again. She wanted to know him, understand his thoughts and crawl beneath his skin.

Her thoughts burned; she felt amazed and alarmed. But they remained.

She was confined to her cabin - _Cap'n's orders_, was Reynolds' curt explanation some nights ago as he placed a bowl of food at the edge of her bed. He seemed different - cold and distant; so much so that Samhra questioned whether she had turned from _guest_ to_ captive_.

Perhaps he didn't want her to know of his pirate side for fear that it would scare her away. The heat, the life, the almost violent promise within his pulse…

And she was scared.

But she still wanted his touch.

**~o~**

At dawn, Teague guided the _Lady_ towards a sheltered, deep-water bay called Keyhole Cove, which was protected from the open sea by two high promontories. The larger of these was a bluff that offered a natural refuge for pirates, stolen booty and all. Both rocky outcroppings encircled the cove, which was closed to the sea except for an inlet at its southeastern corner. This entrance – a narrow channel flanked by hidden reefs that lay under the waters on either side – was not readily visible from the ocean, and culminated in a sharp turn into the shelter of the cove. For any large hulled ship, entry to the cove was perilous even at high tide, for navigating through the inlet risked dashing the vessel on the fearsome rocks which protected it. To approach the cove with a vessel in tow required excellent pilotage skills, a very high tide, and a good measure of luck. Teague had anchored here often, and had no reservations about navigating the channel again.

Further concealment from the ocean was provided by a strategically placed boot-shaped knuckle of land just off the coast, densely covered with trees.

Teague stood upon the quarterdeck with spyglass in hand, casting an eye over the wide white beach along Madagascar's coast as they slowly approached the channel. Seagulls cawed, seemingly happy in the distance, and the breeze gently ruffled the trees on shore. He swung his spyglass up and squinted through it, taking in the cliff-top heights and the dark green hills beyond. Between the cliffs was the calm channel of clear green water that bent back hard behind it. Even as close as they were to it, it was hard to make out the opening because of the encompassing overgrowth of the island's grey-green scrubs. The Cove was like a hidden, secret passage.

In the pirate realm, young Edward Teague had grown to be an utterly fearless, powerful, vicious Pirate Lord. He led a ship full of bloodthirsty pirates who willingly gave him their fierce, steadfast loyalty. There was no doubt that Teague's reputation as a bold and valiant commander was greatly enhanced by his fair-mindedness and strong knowledge of sail and navigation. It was good business for a pirate to cultivate such talents, for an evil reputation could only go so far. It was as if he was primed in the art of captaining, but he trusted very few men, one of them being Bloodbath. His trust in Bloodbath's resolute character and ability as First Mate was unwavering.

Bloodbath had proven himself from the moment of their first meeting, nearly eleven years ago. Teague had been a young pirate, green as grass, who trusted too easily. He had accepted a tip on a shipment of valuables being transported to _Duchess Something-or-other _at her estate in Cornwall, and he went alone, following up the lead by himself. That's how he found himself hunkered down between two rocks on a hillside, firing at two unknown men who were lying in wait to ambush him. As good a shot as he was, the men were on higher ground, with an excellent view of his position and were able to keep him pinned down.

Shots ricocheting off his covering of rocks sent fragments flying around him. Several came too close for comfort when he exposed himself long enough to get in a few good shots of his own. One shot grazed his arm but did little damage. He was thankful when another man rode in to take up a position several hundred feet from his own, putting his adversaries in somewhat of a crossfire.

Matthew "Bloodbath" Harlow, aged twenty-three and experienced beyond his years, arrived just in time to save nineteen year old Edward Teague's life. It hadn't taken the two ambushers long to figure out there were two accurate lines of fire coming their way. The attackers chose the better part of valor by hightailing it to the south.

Teague and Bloodbath had enjoyed a close friendship ever since.

Aboard the _Empress_, Bloodbath stood at the helm, ordering Finnegan to climb up the junk's mast as his lookout. Regardless of his disagreements with the young lad, Finnegan had a sharp eye and there was no better man for the task. Shortly, Teague would be turning his vessel sharply to starboard and, with guidance from the Powers, they would safely run the _Empress_ aground on the beach at the farthest end of the Cove. Although it was clear that most of the Chinese crew was reluctant, there was little that they could do to save their damaged vessel. They needed food, drink, and wood to repair the bamboo battens - they needed the _Lady_.

As both of his hands gripped the wheel handles, Bloodbath recalled the many times they had sailed this route. It was a simpler time – a time when he and Teague never dreamed of being respected pirates.

_I'm a terrible pirate,_ a younger, more naïve Teague would declare. _You were always a much better pirate than me._

It was true for a time, but they were both rubbish pirates - with their lumbering lack of coordination, inability to tie proper knots, and their famous reputation for hiding their treasure and forgetting where they'd left it.

Nevertheless, he didn't want to see his young friend upset. _Pfft, I've made a few mistakes myself. _Bloodbath would say to console him, being a bit worse for wear from all the rum. _Like that time I let a cannibal join the crew, and that other time I said, 'Well I don't see any hurricane.' I'm not perfect. _They would laugh until the drink wouldn't allow them to stand any longer.

How time had changed them both… especially Teague. He had changed his principles, as many Lords before him had done. It was power that was the attraction. Teague accepted his status and command with memorable words:_ I dipped my hands in murky waters, and if a pirate I must be, 'tis better to be a Lord, than a common man._

The years that came after that moment had brought them many adventures. They led groups of men on attacks along the coast of Portugal. He brought their first ship, the _Aurora_, in as close as possible to the Torre de Belémin Lisbon in order to provide covering fire and, with cannon balls flying overhead, Teague and his men had charged the ramparts. The pirates managed to break through the main entrance – only to find the Tower deserted. The Portuguese soldiers had abandoned their posts and fled into town.

That night, the pirates set fire to the surrounding fort. Many wanted to burn the town itself. But it was then, for the first time, that Teague exerted his authority. The town was protected by a long expanse of shallow water and was out of range of the _Aurora's_ guns. It was also surrounded by thick forests which would provide cover for defenders. The pirates would inevitably sustain casualties for little gain, Teague argued. And his sensible advice prevailed. But still, they loaded around a dozen cannon on to a smaller boat and gave themselves the partial satisfaction of destroying several houses. Then, with the night falling, they set two Portuguese ships alight and sailed out of the harbor by the light of the flames. It was less than two weeks since they'd first arrived.

It was that raid that made him realize that Teague was a changed man; a leader, a man worth following.

And so he did.

Within moments, the cautious, slow-travelling ships began to thread their way through the reefs. The crew of the _Empress_ fell silent as Finnegan began signaling directions to the helm, and with each gesture, Bloodbath steered the ship on proper course.

Aboard the _Lady_, Teague began the _Lady's_ turn to starboard as she cleared the entrance to the Cove, and the _Empress_ began to swing to port on her tow line. Blood bath quickly adjusted her rudder, bringing her back in line with the_ Lady_ before the junk's momentum could carry her into the rocky shoreline.

Once the ships made the turn, a bit of tension fell away from Teague's shoulders, but not for long; he needed to make more sail to gain a bit of speed and steer towards the far shore, where the wide, sandy beach lay. As the Lady approached the shore, Teague ordered the anchor to be heaved, the cable tautened, and all canvas dropped. As she swung on her shortened cable, the _Lady_ released the tow line.

Slowly, the _Empress_' momentum carried her past the _Lady_'s stern, and gently grounded her in the shallow waters of the sandy shore.

A small group of Teague's crew jumped into the longboat and began preparing the _Lady_ for mooring. Knowing that time was of the essence, the mooring lines were set without delay to secure the _Lady _and prevent her from swinging on her anchor cable.

With the wind blowing strongly, Teague watched as the crew prepared the longboat to go ashore. Exhaustion began to settle in, but he knew that he wouldn't find repose until Samhra was safe. He instinctively focused on the _Empress_ in the distance. It was a relief to see that she was successfully beached as the tide ebbed but, at the same time, he feared what would happen if Sao Feng found her. Teague had witnessed the brothels in Singapore first hand, and did not wish that fate upon Samhra. Turning again to shore, he watched his men disappear with provisions beyond the dense barrier of broadleaf ferns and palm trees screening the far shore from view.

After a brief moment of gathering his thoughts and breath, he turned to greet Reynolds with a severe stare. "_She_ must not be seen."

**~o~  
><strong>

Time had stopped. She could see it flowing somewhere very far away, perhaps outside. The ship had become still some time ago, but she could feel the _Lady_ lifting and falling, over and over again. The slow, gentle swaying motions rocked her quietly, almost politely; it was consoling, even personal. The rhythmic movement seemed to calm her troubled mind, even if only for a moment.

There was no light in her cabin, and her eyes grew heavy as she played with the edges of her gifted silver brush, relying only on touch to guide her fingers along the cool metal. Time was moving somewhere, but not inside her. Inside her, time had stopped. She couldn't feel anything, couldn't do anything.

Thoughts of nothing immediately turned to thoughts of her Edward, but she pushed him from her mind. There was a great, invisible bolster thrust between them, and she had never felt so lonely and cold. It was incomprehensible that her life in Tanjavur was over. Everything she knew there had been burned to the ground. She almost burst into tears at the thought. If it weren't all so bizarre, she'd feel like the biggest fool in the world, but she didn't know what to think. Maybe it was the fact that his eyes looked so kind; so trusting, and nothing like her monstrous husband.

Perhaps it was all a lie. Perhaps everything that had been instilled in her upbringing was an elaborate ploy to divert her from the truth. But she had undergone so much abuse that she could no longer decipher what the truth really was and what real love should feel like.

She turned onto her side and closed her eyes. Minutes passed, and she was wide-awake. She turned onto her other side, then her back. Sighing, she touched the crust forming on her lower lip from the monster's blow, and squeezed her eyes closed. Nothing was working. Finally she sat up, feeling most unlike herself.

In her tossing and turning, her hair had come loose from her braid and tumbled over her shoulder. She thrust it away from her face, and fixed her eyes on the light that illuminated the outline of her doorway.

What she had come to realize was that she was more insulted than anything that Teague had deceived her with such a lie. How could he kiss her while playing her like a fool? She decided that she hated him. The wretched vermin! Wretched, wretched vermin! The thought made her fume. The insult did little to relieve her anger; she punched the mattress, hoping it would make her feel better.

She took in a few deep breaths, attempting to regain some sort of tranquility. _Perhaps one should not judge_, she thought after a moment. The typical pirate, showing up at her door, should have raped, plundered and murdered her, but Teague had not done so. Even though he had led a cruel life of disease, danger and death it had not made him hard-hearted.

Her internal ruminating was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. She huddled in the corner with unreasoning fear as her door flew open.

Teague moved fast; walking in, he took his coat off. "Samhra, we must go. Quickly," he spoke softly.

She was speechless for a moment. He was dressed strangely, all in black, even his shirt—he seemed to snuff himself out like a light. Around his neck, he wore a black bandana; her gaze fell on it. It was silk. She wondered if the skin it concealed was as smooth has the material.

What was she thinking?

A moment later, she felt his cheek grazing hers in the darkness as he wrapped the coat around her shoulders. She eyed him warily, gazing at the dull outline of his face; his dark eyes invisible in the shadows. Her mind flashed back to the kiss they had shared only a few days ago.

Sighing, she pulled her eyes away from the man who had bothered her sleep for so many nights. "Are you a pirate?" she asked, with a measure of apprehension, praying that her Songsmith would quell her doubts and insecurities.

Teague appeared stunned, if the bemused expression on his face was the correct indicator of his emotions. The importance of his surroundings slowly sank in. "We don't have time-"

Samhra could see his thoughts chasing one another across his face. "You _are_ a pirate!" she accused, pulling away from his grasp. "I heard them say you were a pirate."

In one swift motion, Teague removed his shirt and caught Samhra's hand in the darkness. He pressed it against an oddly shaped scar on his chest. At first, his rashness made her apprehensive, but curiosity took hold of her fingers, and they traced the edges of the scar slowly, carefully. Finally, she recognized the shape - she had outlined a medium sized letter "P".

"What did you think I was?" His tone was harsh and inimical, and he fixed his eyes on Samhra in a strange, scornful glare. "What does it change? Would you have come if I had told you?"

The silence that filled the room clearly unnerved him; his breath came harshly. "You have your answer," he said, sounding crushed. Then he rose to his feet and reached down to scoop her up into his arms.

Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Where are you taking me?" she asked nervously, feeling her pulse quicken. "Are you going to hurt me?"

For a moment, he looked as if he was considering the notion, but then he whispered, "If I intended to hurt you, I would have done so already. Be still, we haven't much time to waste."

**~o~**

With lanterns in hand, Bloodbath and Reynolds quietly led the way across the wide expanse of beach. Teague followed close behind, eyes darting in every direction. The jungle was alive; rich and lush in life and noise, colorful birds and monkeys called out to them from the trees rustling in the breeze. He tightened his grip on the woman in his arms, offering her protection from the new, strange noises. Samhra nestled her face upon his shoulder, against the warmth of his chest while his arms tensed protectively around her. The group moved like the wind until they came to a slipway of sorts, made of splintered wooden boards, which lead to a pathway up the cliff ahead.

Parts of the trail were washed away from rushing flood waters, and all of it was overhung by vegetation. The steps cut into the cliff were shallow and wide, their edges reinforced by roughhewn stones and thick planks. As they walked, Reynolds made sure to mark the way, so the crew would know their route when it was time to return to the _Lady_.

Teague carried her carefully up the steps into the forest, and for a time, everything was silent and dark. The air was a little warmer there; the ocean breeze barely penetrating the thick surrounding foliage.

It was a good night for reconnaissance. What little moon there was sat low in the night sky and was partially obscured by clouds. Every so often, Teague stopped to let her stretch her legs, and then gathered Reynolds and Bloodbath close together for a quick briefing. They spoke in low whispers. Curious, she moved in. It looked as though they were plotting something, she thought. But gradually, she had simply given up on her endless speculating and just concentrated on each moment. Life had begun to take on an element of unreality for her, for the events in the past few days had become too hard to handle.

It was strange, too, how she caught herself looking around for Teague, making sure he was near. She felt like a child, too young to explore without her parents. But she didn't speak to him. She stood there and looked at him, trying to figure out what to do next.

Around them, the forest seemed alive. Sudden snapping of branches and snagging vines and leaves, with invisible insects that buzz and swoop. The noise was constant, and the heat rose and fell. She had never been alone, not once, in her life, and now she was completely alone, in a company of utter strangers.

A few moments passed until Teague eased over to her, bent down, and pulled her into his arms again. She panicked internally. Like a trapped animal pacing behind bars, her mind weaved back and forth. She was caged in trees and heat.

She kicked her feet in the air as Teague lifted her, looking to him for a measure of comfort. "I've got you, love," he whispered next to her ear. Even then, he only spoke to her when the others could not hear. Otherwise, he ignored her. Perhaps it was an act. The man who saved her from certain death? That man had adored her. And yet, he had changed completely since that day. Filled with confusion, anticipation, and dread, she began to cry again. Within moments, she felt his cheek on her forehead, and she softly nuzzled her head down onto his shoulder as he held her.

Even in her weakened state, Samhra was startled by the intensity of his sharp black eyes that studied her closely. But despite the strength and power that radiated from his presence, he didn't frighten her. To the contrary, every instinct told her that he was the man that would keep her safe. For some reason, as she melted into his embrace, she trusted him – _pirate_ or not. He was _human_; he cared for her, and everything about him seemed to suggest it.

All at once, she saw what she hadn't seen before. It was like suddenly noticing a magician's bluff – that trick of the eye – a form of misdirection in which a larger action hides a smaller one. It was a ruse, the way he ignored her. Oh, not to fool her, she now realized, but to fool _them_. To fool Sao Feng. With that revelation, the tears stopped, and she finally found comfort in his arms. But there was one last question that plagued her.

_Why?_

Teague looked down; noticing Samhra had cried herself to sleep. Her dark hair hung in damp tendrils around her petite face, and her cheeks were stained with tears. His arms were tired, but he held the sleeping woman tightly with purpose.

As they continued to toil up the slope, Bloodbath took the lead, slashing a path through the undergrowth with his cutlass while Reynolds brought up the rear. They assured the village was close by, and they knew their way quite well.

The pirates inhabited a well-hidden campsite in the center of the rocky bluff that overlooked the eastern coast of the country. There, sheer cliffs crashed to pummel the rocky shore below. To the west rose stands of tall trees, whose blackened silhouettes glowed silver in the moonlight.

Before the Company raids, there had been a small, thriving settlement there, with some houses and farmers. But the first contingent of thirty men, under the command of one George Beckett, a bold and profligate fellow, had landed and entered without opposition, set fire to the town, and tumbled their supplies into the sea.

The arrival of pirates on cutters at this long-abandoned town led to reconstruction of some buildings. There were certainly a few houses in reasonable condition, including one which they had converted into a tavern, of course; but there was barely enough accommodation for both crews. Sails had to be brought ashore from abandoned ships, and makeshift shelters were constructed in the surrounding area.

As Teague's party approached the summit, boisterous voices and foreign music began to fill the silent void of the mountaintop. Bloodbath took the lead, making sure that the area was clear of blackguards before accompanying Teague and Samhra to the tent furthest from the crew's campfire.

When they reached the shelter, Teague carried the young woman through the flap door and, with great care, placed her on some loose blankets in the middle of the spacious interior. His fingers deftly loosed the ties that held her long, braided tresses. Reynolds had gone to fetch a pail of clear water from the camp, which Teague used to gently clean Samhra's lip wound. Finally, he covered the length of her body with a light blanket and sat beside her. Silently, he gazed at her, listening to the even sound of her breaths. He found himself gripped by possessiveness, and an overwhelming need to protect her from anyone or anything that might bring her harm.

He stayed at her side for a few more moments, letting his eyes grow heavy, until he decided it was time for him to go rejoin his men. But as he began to rise, Samhra stirred and her long, black eyelashes fluttered. With all the energy she possessed, she gently seized his shirtsleeve. "Stay with me? Please, don't go," she pleaded in a raspy voice.

Without a word, he obliged, lying down beside her and she instantly curled up against him. She felt him wrap his arms around her as she laid her head on his chest. She did not resist. Perhaps she was too tired, or didn't care any longer. The only thing that made sense to her was his warmth; she needed it, craved it.

Her eyes were closed, but her hand found his face, his chin, his eyes, his ears, his lips… she needed his lips. She felt his breath on her face, and breathed in the air he exhaled – his breath was her breath. Her Edward was alive; she was alive. She was no longer crying; she was no longer cold.

Overcome by fatigue, she sank into his embrace, until she relaxed and fell asleep.

**~o~**

For several hours, Samhra was in a deep and dreamless sleep. In the dead of night, she awoke, startled, feeling a weight on her chest and, fearfully, she gazed at her unfamiliar surroundings. Suddenly, she became aware that something was observing her, something with eyes, something with hot breath, and something with a large tongue. Blinking, panting, and drooling with his tongue hanging from one side of his jaw, sat Rogue, who looked quite comfortable indeed.

Brushing the corners of her eyes and trying to focus, she reached out to where Teague lay beside her, but he was no longer there. She sighed. "What a surprise," she whispered to herself.

Playfully, she scratched behind the small pup's ear. "How is it that you and I always end up together?" He whimpered a small response, cocking his head to one side.

"Are you my protector?" she asked, tenderly cupping her hands around the pup's head.

Rogue huffed, as if he replied, _Well, of course I am! _He stood up on her chest and turned around to face the opening of the tent. Then, he gently settled back down – leaving Samhra with the not-so-agreeable view of his shaggy arse.

She turned her head to avoid the occasional wag of her guard dog's tail and spotted something curious beside her. Further inspection revealed it to be two piles of clothing. In one lay the golden-colored saris Teague gifted to her the day the _Empress_ was spotted on the horizon. They were neatly folded and well taken care of. The other consisted of a pile of black garments – a loose shirt, men's pants and a black, silk bandana – carelessly tossed in a heap beside the flap.

Gently, she patted Rogue's hips until he reluctantly let her rise. He huffed again, obviously annoyed with her sudden willingness to move. It seemed as though the slope between her chest and stomach was a very comfortable place to stand guard.

Rogue followed her inquisitively, as she crawled to the mounds of clothing, finding a new home in her lap as she picked up a sari. Rogue sniffed it for a few moments before settling his head down on her leg.

Samhra managed a weak smile as she recalled her childhood home in Tanjavur. It was warm, familiar, beautiful, and feminine. Her mind wandering over her childhood, when she had hoped for such great things: she would marry a prince, live in a castle, and be someone special. But marriage and servitude was what was expected of her. She recalled how her mother would proudly declare that she'd make a fine wife one day.

_Wife_, she thought, frowning.

Her mother was always on about the evils of dreaming, but she never could see it. Her dreams were still her own. She could have been anyone, rich or poor, plain or pretty, clever or stupid.

Her delicate fingers artfully traced the smooth floral patterns as beautiful memories turned sour at the recollection of her abusive, deceased husband.

_Widow_, she corrected.

Her expression changed, andRogue looked at her with his big, brown, concerned eyes. _What's wrong? _He let out a small whine and licked her arm, hoping to mend her broken spirit."Who am I?" she asked him. Rogue's head tilted, listening to her intently. The question surprised her, for she had never considered it. Her life was laid out before her when she was born. Why would she question it?

_I'm a murderer. A criminal. An escapee. The shunned daughter of a prestigious family, _she listed in her thoughts. All things true. Absentmindedly, she ran her tongue over her parched lips and wound.

The memories of that night played over again in her mind:

The gunshot.

The scream.

The blood pooling beside her.

The monster – _dead_.

And Teague standing before her as her savior.

As her thoughts shifted, she put the garment down, smoothing out its edges, and let out a small sigh. Tanjavur was gone – a thing of the past. That chapter of her life was over.

Moving on, she picked up Teague's discarded shirt and held it up to her nose.

_I could be a pirate's captive… _

Inhaling deeply, she filled her lungs with his scent. The thought of him made her smile for the first time in days. She held the garment against her, studying its size.

"Or," she thought aloud, smiling at the revelation, "a pirate's love."

Rogue barked as he nuzzled his way under the black garment. He was beginning to look quite restless. She patted his scruffy little head. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

**~o~**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The original characters and plots are owned by me.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 7: The Traitor<strong>_

**~o~**

Teague waited until he was certain she really was fast asleep, and then propped himself up on his elbow and began touching a damp lock of her black hair gently, timidly, not knowing how she would react if she were to wake. He touched her cheek, close to the tiny ear that curled in an intricate, mysterious way.

He was sailing into battle again, unarmed. What wounds he would receive this time, he was not sure would heal. He would have to be less than honest with her – with everyone.

His beliefs were always profound and clear, he spoke what he thought, and acted as he thought. It was simple, because he never had a choice. That was his character by nature. He had no choice what to say and what to do because veracity, responsibility and conscientiousness were mutually inseparable features of his talent – his human genius. He had no choice whether to intercede or not intercede – he always interceded.

_What did the future hold_? He often found himself considering.

Many months had passed since his summons to Shipwreck Cove. With a sinking feeling that bordered on desperation, he realized it wouldn't be much longer until the crew found out.

The call had come in the form of a small pup, adorned with an oversized, wrought iron key dangling from around his tiny neck. However, the letter paired with the small prize wasn't so endearing. In short, the Court petitioned him to assume a new responsibility – speak politics, when he never divided his thinking into political and non-political. He would have to uphold the Law, feel another men's pain beneath his own skin – a sharp talent that would never leave him indifferent. Involuntarily, without speaking, he would enter history, where the Brethren felt he had belonged, for a very long time.

There was a saying, "_a righteous man in every village_," but he was neither righteous nor willing enough to give up the sea.

The idea of running away never entered his mind, but the Court knew well enough that he couldn't live with himself if he deserted his crew in their hour of need. He would rather die than be called a coward. It was a matter of honor, of principle and he would be damned if a "summons" would scare him away from his duty.

He was a Pirate Lord, and by the Powers, he would _die _like a Pirate Lord, fighting for his life, for his men, and not locked away in the archive of a well-supplied fortress with two positively ancient geezers playing cards.

He shook his head at the thoughts running wild in his mind, a grim look coming into his deep, brown eyes. _Fine words and thoughts_, he told himself, but still the thought of drowning below the depths and never seeing Samhra again, made him tremble with rage and fear.

Samhra stirred, causing him to subdue the mounting fear as best he could.

He drew his fingers through her hair. In time, he would tell her everything about himself. She would understand.

Forcing himself to crawl away from her, Teague opened the flap of their tent and was greeted by a gust of cool air. Reynolds and Bloodbath were waiting for him outside, with Rogue at their feet.

"'Ow's she farin'?" Reynolds asked as he began untying a small bundle he had draped over his shoulder.

Teague peeled off his shirt and tossed it to his old friend. "She hates me." He sighed, shrugging. "Probably."

Bloodbath rolled his eyes; Teague was still so naïve at times. "Ya mean '_most likely_'? I remember tha' young puppy love," he chuckled, biting his lip as he pointed a knowing finger at his captain. "I remember 'ow bloody awful it was, mate. I mean mine just up and left, know wot I mean?" He turned to Reynolds for a measure of compassion. "She left, and didn't e'en try to kill me. Didn't have the 'eart to stab me or cut me 'ead off. Is it too much to ask? Some little sign that she cared?"

Reynolds raised a suspicious, unsympathetic eyebrow. "I always thought you were outta yer mind … Now, I'm quite sure of it."

Teague couldn't hide his amusement as he busied himself with untying his trousers, slipping them off for his usual pair of dark grey. "I did quite like these," he said, holding the garment before him.

"Got 'em off a dead man in Tortuga," Reynolds replied matter-of-factly.

The pants dropped to the ground. "Guess I didn't like 'em so much after all." Rogue shot up and quickly buried his nose in the pile of black fabric, but snorted, evidently displeased with the smell.

Reynolds tossed Teague a white shirt from his bundle, which he pulled over his head in haste. "Anyway, I wasn't sure wha' exactly ya were expectin', Sir. Y've got 'er caged up like a bird." He fiddled around the bag to grab the next item: an intricately decorated red vest.

"Remember Singapore?" Teague asked with a dark undertone lacing his voice. He held out his hand to grab the vest.

Bloodbath scratched his head, looking up toward the sky. "Vaguely," he muttered, scrunching his nose.

_Of course he wouldn't_, Teague thought, hiding his grin. The breeze blew his dark hair across his face, momentarily distracting him. Frowning, he paused to pull a pale green length of cloth from his belt. Stretching it over his forehead, he tied at the back of his head, thinking he would eventually have to deal with the overgrown mop on his head.

Almost unconsciously, he reached for the cutlass that hung at his hip as he recalled their brief interlude in Singapore…

There were plenty of ships lying at anchor to be counted, Teague reminisced, but not nearly half so many as he knew Liang Dao had been hoping for.

"'_Ow many_?" Bloodbath hissed.

The harbor was maybe a third full, at best. "_By my bloody count, only seventeen_," Teague muttered, clearly dissatisfied. They'd hoped to see outlaw barkys, frigates, and brigantines, lying hull to hull.

"_Not good enough. We need ten times that number afore we're done."_

"_Aye. Maybe ten times that. And more."_

Liang Dao had invited every living outlaw and pirate for a big parley, but it looked like only a precious few had accepted his invitation. Teague had confided his plan to his crew, but no one aboard the _Misty Lady_ had been told the reason for the parley. Teague kept such things to himself. But his First Mate was content. He'd know soon enough.

A full harbor by morning would make Bloodbath felicitous and that in turn, would have a good effect on his men. They were a sorry lot, for the most part; half of them escaped prisoners from raids, and the other half thieving murderers who had somehow evaded the law and were on the run. It was a far cry from the crew of Teague's last command.

Teague, who had already betrayed his native England for pirate's gold, had subsequently lost command of his first vessel, the 78-gun _Aurora_, in a bizarre engagement with a much smaller warship, a corsair barquentine called _Merlin_. His crew had mercilessly betrayed him in the midst of battle; and the _Aurora_ was taken as a prize.

The two men scoured the West Indies, the Atlantic and the Caribbean for a suitable replacement of ship and crew; until earlier that spring, when they spied a large British warship, the _HMS Monarch_, lying at anchor one dark night in Nassau Town. Teague had planned a surprise predawn raid, and although greatly outnumbered, they seized the great English frigate in a brief but bloody battle. Teague had finally acquired a fine warship of 74 guns beneath his feet, and he christened her the _Misty Lady_.

And by a fortuitous circumstance, the corsairs found occasion for the _Aurora_, for there she was, number twelve in line. He smiled wickedly. Perhaps, he'd get the opportunity to exact his revenge after all.

Bloodbath, perhaps the only man on earth he could trust, happily dug his oars into the water and pulled mightily. There was a full moon that night, Teague ruminated, and the lights along the waterfront dives, brothels, and rum dens were all ablaze. This, after all, was the home port of the Brethren of that Coast - a pirate's private enclave that strangers entered at their own peril.

There was no doubt that Singapore was famous for sexual excess. Brothels abounded, filled with crews of vile strumpets and common prostitutes – a walking plague, against which neither cage, nor whip, nor ducking-stool would prevail. It was almost impossible to civilize those people. Bloodbath, after several months at sea, was eager to be ashore, with a belly full of strong Asian spirits and back in the arms of a sweet wench from one of Liang Dao's brothels he called "Sucre", and sweet as sugar she was.

But there was a grand purpose to it all. Liang Dao wouldn't summon the underbelly of the pirate realm for a night of rum and visits from old acquaintances. The Pirate Lord of Singapore called on those who willingly supported the new Law of the Sea – _The Pirate's Code_. Teague knew the man all too well. He was one of the many pirates who wanted to make waves; write his name in blood across the seas and into history. He meant to unite and build the greatest pirate armada of all time and claim the world's riches for himself. His plan was nothing less than to destroy his two sworn enemies, the French and the English, with a series of bold attacks, breathtaking in audacity and scope. Then he'd loot their undefended coastal towns at will.

The world would be his for the taking, if he succeeded.

"_Lay alongside him,_" Teague told his companion as they neared the stern of the _Empress_. Bloodbath did as he was told and shipped his oars, his gunwale bumped up against the portside hull.

Teague stood in his captain's gig, a little unsteady on his pins, as if he'd had a few tots of rum himself, and shouted upward, "_Ahoy! Is that dog Liang Dao aboard_?"

A crewman standing at the port watch leaned over the rail. "_Who wants to know_?" Teague recalled the curt reply, though the man had been near impossible to understand.

Teague and Bloodbath drew their pistols. They didn't like the man's tone. And if he didn't mind his manners, they planned to put quite a few holes in his tiny brain. "_Tell him it's Teague. Just made anchor. I'll meet him at his place of business in about an hour._"

"_Captain Edward Teague, is it_?" There was a new respect in the crewman's voice, and rightly so. Teague was notorious as a cutthroat in that realm of the world. He once heard rumors that he was equated with a ghostly figure – the devil reincarnated. It was even rumored that he appeared in three or four places at the same time, shimmering in and out like some kind of banshee. Not a bad reputation, he supposed, so he let the speculations grow.

"_My apologies, Captain. I'll pass along your invitation," _the crewman said, obviously not taking any chances.

"_I want to get there first," _Teague affirmed, turning to regard his First Mate. "_Make haste and I'll finance another jug o' poison and that jolly sugar whore for you._"

The four story building wasn't much to look at, but it was strategically located at the center of the crescent-shaped harbor. From Liang Dao's top floor veranda, he could look far out to sea for approaching vessels and with spyglass in hand; he could watch every move a man could make aboard any ship in the harbor. Of course, the _Black Crow_ brothel stank of rank sweat, stale beer and the sour smell of spilt rum. Furthermore, the sex was convenient, quick and cheap. And it was at this hour of the night, that intoxicated room was near pandemonium. Indeed, the riotous nature of this place Teague encountered before him was not one he had seen before.

The two pirates stepped from the street, inside the doorway of the _Black Crow_. At a nod from Teague, Bloodbath pushed and shoved his way through the tumultuous crowd of pirates, privateers, various scalawags and hangers-on with Teague following close behind. When they reached the center of the room, they encountered a tall Chinaman with shoulders as wide as four trees and the thickest, blackest eyebrows they'd ever seen. Two flintlock pistols from the bandoliers were strapped across his bare chest; he pulled them and fired toward the ceiling. Chunks of plaster fell all around him. It appeared that they were the last to arrive, after all.

"_Silence, if you please_," the giant man said. "_My revered commander, famous throughout the world for his bravery and the size of his treasury has summoned you here tonight because he would like a word. His name is familiar, Captain Liang Dao_!"

A drunken roar went up from the crowd at the sound of that name, for Dao was much esteemed in that part of the world. As their beloved captain made his way to the table where his henchman stood, the crowd parted magically, and many an old crewman stepped forward to pay their respects. A chant started with a single sailor screaming, "_Dao! Dao Dao_!" and soon every voice joined in the cacophony, three hundred dastardly pirates, shouting the pirate's name to the very rafters.

Finally, Liang Dao leaped up to the table, drew his sword from the scabbard and raised it high in the air, the silver skulls braided into his fine beard tinkling like tiny bells. He was everything a pirate should be: fierce, quick to anger, violent, conniving – the whole package.

"_This is a historic night by any measure_," Dao began; his voice was rich and deep. His chiseled face demanded and received their full attention as he turned so all could have a good look at him. "_For when the history books of the future are scribbled down, they will tell of the greatest pirate armada ever assembled. And it will you men here tonight, you brave souls, that history itself will be telling about. And those words will be written in blood_!"

He paused to let the thought sink in.

"_My thanks to you all for being first of the brethren to heed the call. But this is just the beginning. By the time we're ready to strike at our enemies, our number will have increased a hundredfold! We will be an empire that rules the seas! An empire of blood!"_

The chant of "Dao!" began again, and despite the henchman's efforts to silence them, it continued unabated. Dao nodded at the big ox, who raised both pistols again and fired once more into the ceiling.

"_Captains_!" Dao bellowed. The room fell silent again. "_I address you now. I want you and your crews to sail on the morning tide. You are my messengers, and you will go forth and call all of our brethren to gather at Shipwreck Cove a fortnight hence. And tell them of the endless riches in store for those who sign on!_

"_For no ship, city or town will be spared our wrath as we wreak havoc and plunder the French, English and Dutch coasts, and any ship under any flag foolhardy enough to place themselves in our path! Hard, bloodthirsty work there will be, but it'll be well paid for_!"

The resounding roar was deafening as Dao stepped down from his podium.

"_Not a bad show, eh_?" Teague looked closely at Bloodbath and let his First Mate catch just a trace of a smile on his full lips.

"_Edward!" _Dao strode forward, offering a low bow. "_Thank you for honoring the call._"

Teague offered a bow in return. "_The honor is mine_."

Liang Dao simply smiled as he adjusted his jacket of fine silk; he was the picture of luxury that evening. Unlike most scalawags, he wore neither hat nor bandana. His hair was the color of the darkest night, and it hung unfettered to his shoulder. A thin mustache topped lips that curled in amusement.

"_Dao._" Teague abruptly grew very serious. "_You of all men should know this isn't right with the Code._"His fellow Pirate Lord regarded him, widening his eyes in mocking innocence. "_Ah, yes, Captain. I understand your concern. But you see, you don't know how complicated this …" _he breathed, searching for the right word, "_situation – actually is_."

Teague shifted his weight, growing impatient. "_Explain_."

Dao rubbed his chin, his smile fading to subdued laughter. Teague got the feeling that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"_I haven't come 'ere to entertain you_." He seethed in irritation.

Dao frowned playfully. "_No, gentleman, it seems you have not_." Dao snapped his fingers at a younger man with a similar face – _a sibling_, he presumed. They spoke fleetingly in their native tongue, to which the lad immediately obliged him by bringing over two finely dressed prostitutes, garlanded with black, ornate masks over their faces. He formally bowed to Teague and Bloodbath and handed the women off for their enjoyment. "_I am to entertain you_."

Teague frowned and shook his head, disinterested; there was little time to deal with that sort of distraction. "_Don't be foolish._ _Convene the Court_." He stared at Dao in warning. Dao would fail wretchedly without the support of the other Lords, but before he could argue the point, the masked woman consigned to him began stroking his cheek.

"_Let us not speak of business this evening,_" Dao insisted. _"It is a time for celebration, my friends. Our battle for control of the Seven Seas has finally begun_."

Out of the small measure of reverence he had remaining for his fellow Lord, he took the woman to her respective room upstairs, which she shared with three others. When the door closed behind them, he put his plan into motion. He handed them fifteen gold pieces and placed a finger on his lips. He had to be a bit more cautious. There was a price for everything and it didn't cost too much to keep those women's mouths shut.

The only possible exit was a window, high up on the wall facing the door. He got up, and looked at the wall, examining its surface for some possible boost. To his disadvantage, there was none, so he crouched down and jumped. His hand just grasped the edge, clung for a fraction of a second, and then scraped off. Undeterred, he knelt again, as close to the wall as he could possibly get, flexed himself and leaped up. This time, his palms grasped hold. He pressed his fingertips against the stone surface and chinned up enough to work his elbows over. He rested a moment, and then squeezed his stomach in and hung there on the ledge against the window, his legs dangling behind.

He had inched the window open noiselessly and, forgetting he was on the second floor, looked down into blackness. It was dark outside, but he could make out an alley. He stuck one foot through the open window and straddled the ledge, one foot in, one foot out. _Shit_, he thought to himself. He hadn't planned for that.

Suddenly, something grabbed hold of his boot. For a moment he was panic-stricken, but he looked down to find his masked woman, holding up two knotted bed sheets. Apparently, they'd had some experience with this endeavor. Her black eyes smiled up at him.

Without a moment's hesitation, he shoved the sheets through the window. With one hand on the sill, he tested it. It gave a lurch, then held. The Powers seemed to be in his favor, for any night where he could leave some rank hellhole without broken bones was one to be noted. With a great weight lifted from his shoulders, he returned through the window, and planted a kiss on the cheek of his savior's mask.

Turning to face the wall of the brothel, he let himself out. He twisted his legs around the sheet and swiftly slid down to the dark alley below.

When he finally reached the _Aurora_, Bloodbath was already present and waiting. A small flame flickered to life as the First Mate lit his lantern. Soon, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, registering the multitude of his crew in the background. Gleams of torches suddenly flared and the dock was beaming with light.

"_Everyone 'ere?_" he whispered, receiving a brief, purposeful nod from Bloodbath in return. "_Righ',_ _let's get to work._"

It was a grand spectacle; the flames from the pyre assumed greater glory with each passing moment. He took a swig of rum in mourning as he listened to the roar of the mighty fire, the distant crackling of a ship he once loved. Between her boards, sharp, quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt up, curling – darting; higher until they licked the summit of her glorious mast and ate her shriveling sails.

They men sat in their rowboats, gazing from afar as smoke wrapped the sea. The bodies were consumed, and corsair ash choked the pile until the wind fell with night and there was a calm.

"_Answer me this_," Teague demanded between swigs. "_'Ow'd you get to the dock before me_?"

Bloodbath paused, and looked him up and down. "_Wha'd ya mean? I used the front door_," he replied chuckling; it _was_ a rather absurd question in hindsight.

He couldn't help but laugh. _Bloody hell_, he thought, unable to control the laughter that rumbled in his belly.

Bloodbath shook his head; he must have reckoned him a madman, Teague wagered. But his First Mate simply turned away, regarding the scene before them with great indifference. "_'Ow many ships do ya think she'll take wit' 'er?_" As if it were a game.

Teague shrugged; it didn't matter anymore.

"_Feel betta, now?_" Bloodbath pressed on, almost sounding hopeful. "_Satisfied_?"

When the flames reached her powder magazine, she was blown to bits. With a shower of sparks, the _Aurora_ fell, reddening the sea around, and all was dark again.

He took another drink before replying, "_Never_."

**~o~**

Samhra's mind was elsewhere, traveling other worlds. In the early morning light, she folded her arms on the edge of a rock, resting her chin on them, and watched the stars recede. She couldn't wait for first dawn – to watch the stars vanish like small children tiptoeing beyond the verge of sight – disappearing lanterns of heavenly sentries assigned to protect her through the night.

Something about the ocean fascinated her; she felt an affinity with it, drawn to it. Slowly, she rose and wet her feet in the tide. She felt a strange mix of fear and longing, wanting to catch a glimpse of her true self in the water.

Her mind began to recall some teachings of her religion; the notion that she was made of exactly what the ocean was made of. But the ocean was more than just salt. The ocean was filled with life. And that's what she wanted – to let go of her small self, her small identity and allow herself to become part of something greater, letting it flow naturally from the very act of looking within and trusting what she found. To be filled with a greater awareness of_ life_ once again.

Moving ever so cautiously, Samhra began to submerge her legs into the surf, wading until the cool water caressed her stomach.

More than anything, she wanted to discover who she was: her center intermingled, in some mysterious way, with the center of her God.

She pressed onward, waves then breaking against her chest. Edward's black garments began to float away from her slender form, relinquishing pockets of air to the surface. Her black hair fanned out around her.

In receptive solitude she would receive love. In solitude, she would grow to accept that she would be accepted.

In spite of her wishes to tap into such divine acceptance, instinct gripped her, instructing her to turn back toward the beach.

Lowering her head to the water, Samhra watched a dark figure approaching, carrying two brightly lit lanterns in hand. Holding her breath, she dipped her head beneath the breakers, fearing that the crew had uncovered her disappearance. She came up only as far as her eyes, and immediately recognized the sinister blond, Finnegan. She sincerely hoped that her Edward had not set him out to find her.

Despite her fear of him, she watched on inquisitively, noting that he seemed quite peculiar. He set out to climb one of the beach's largest rock formations and secured the lanterns on top.

_Curious_, she thought, as she watched him stand – almost as if he were waiting for something.

Finnegan then took off his coat, and covered the lanterns. Seconds later, he removed it just as quickly. He did this several times, looking over his shoulder each time he endeavored to remove it. His motions were purposeful, but his expression looked frightened.

In the water, Samhra followed his line of sight out into the distance; she spotted another singular light that flashed back at him. It was so slight that, if she weren't deliberately looking for it, she'd have never spotted it.

And then a startling realization came to her…

_It was a signal!_


End file.
